I gasped for breath. “You just startled me,” I said, panting.
“I’ll try not to,” he said, still stooped in his frozen posture. His shoulders were hunched, and a deep blush began to spread over his cheeks again. I hadn’t been aware that it was possible for one of the powerfulVeardurto appear bashful, but he truly did just now. He straightened very slowly, as if fast movements had been what set me off, and I tried to contain my smile. “Can I bring you some food?” he asked, turning to the tray on the stand by the door again when I agreed. He stared at the tray pensively when I told him I still had no preference, and then selected a porridge for me to try and climbed onto the mattress next to me again. I smiled at him gratefully, glad for the company.
After a few bites, he lifted the bowl from my hands without comment and replaced it with a dish of cheese curds, so I ate a few of those. But then he removed that one as well and placed the same pudding I’d eaten earlier into my hands.
“What are you doing?” I asked with a confused laugh.
“You like this one better,” he said matter-of-factly. Both the porridge and the curds had been fine, hearty and savory. Filling. But the warmth and flavor of the pudding flooded my mouth at the first bite, and I couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure. He rose from the bed to fetch me a steaming cup of some herbal brew. “The cook sent this up for you,” he said hesitantly. “It doesn’t taste good, but she says it’s good for your health. You don’t have to drink it.”
I took the mug and sniffed at it, recognizing the familiar earthy, minty scent as healsall, a plant with medicinal properties that my own people used for helping with increasing our magical energy and as a general tonic. I’d been made to drink it often throughout my life, and he was right, it didn’t taste good. But I drained the cup and handed it back to him, grateful for the sweetness of the pudding to cover the bitter aftertaste. I finished the pudding and ate a few more of the soft, pale-colored cheese curds before deciding I couldn’t handle any more. “What about you?” I asked when I was full.
Victor lifted his gaze to mine with a puzzled expression. He didn’t seem to talk much.
“Have you eaten?” None of the dishes had appeared to have been touched before I ate from them.
“Earlier,” he said. “Do you need to use the restroom again?”
“No. I would love to get clean though, but I don’t think I have the energy right now,” I confessed. I’d managed to feed myself this time, which was an improvement, but my arms trembled rather pathetically when I lifted them now. My energy was spent. I was used to having to ration my energy even for daily tasks. It was something I’d learned to do early in my illness. And while I hated feeling unwashed and grubby in front of this handsome man who looked as though he’d been carved from white marble by the hand of God himself, I was already very familiar with the disappointment of having things my mind wanted to do but my body was not up to the task of doing. I wanted to ask if he had a lady’s maid who could help wash me, as my parents did, but since I hadn’t been introduced to one, I didn’t want to risk embarrassing him if he didn’t have one. And the thought of having a non-fae seeing me nude in my winged form felt deeply uncomfortable. Our wings were considered a sacred part of us, something no one but the high fae had.
Victor paused in thought for a moment, his mouth in a sulky, attractive line before walking to the mantle over the fire and retrieving a steaming pitcher. He settled it onto the small table next to me and stepped out of the room, returning quickly with an armful of bottles. “You’ll have to tell me what to do,” he informed me in a shy tone, settling them on the nightstand beside the pitcher. He picked up a toothbrush and used it to mix up a small amount of cleansing powder and water into a bit of paste while I stared at him and tried to muscle up the energy to work my arms again. “This part I can figure out on my own, I think,” he said. He held the brush in front of my mouth with an expectant expression, and I reached to take it, but he tutted at me. “Open.”
I opened my mouth, puzzling over the strangeness of having someone else brush my teeth. Even my maids didn’t do that for me. He peered inside and gently cleansed my mouth with the minty tasting paste.
“Your mouth is very small,” he commented with a frown, his eyebrows pinched together in concentration. After giving special attention to every surface, his brow smoothed out and he sat back as if satisfied with his efforts before handing me a cup of water.
I took a sip, and he handed me a bowl to spit in, staring at me with those piercing blue eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I swallowed the foam instead, shuddering at the thought of spitting in front of someone else, let alonehim.
He frowned at me but proceeded to take a cloth from a stack on the table, dipping it into the steaming pitcher before wringing it out. Starting with the corners of my mouth, he wiped my face, folding it over and moving to my cheeks and forehead, then wiping gently at my eyes with practiced motions. But then he faltered, as if unsure of what to do, a look of self-consciousness washing over his face. “I can… wash your hair,” he offered.
It was such a sweet thing for him to suggest, and heavens knew I needed it, but I felt my own wave of self-consciousness when I thought of him touching my unkempt hair. It hadn’t been washed since the morning of our wedding, however long ago that had been. Though, strangely there were a lot less tangles in it than I would have expected. “I can just wait until I feel better so it won’t be so much trouble,” I told him.
He frowned at me again, but I had no idea why. Maybe my hair was so unclean he found it distasteful to leave it unwashed for yet another day. I nearly drowned in shame before he said, “It isn’t any trouble. I’m simply unsure of how to physically care for someone other than myself. This is the opposite of what I do,” he said with a huff, sounding flustered.
I rolled my lips between my teeth, trying desperately not to laugh.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding mildly panicked. “Are you choking?”
“No, I’m fine,” I told him truthfully. “What do you mean, ‘the opposite of what you do’?” I asked, hoping to keep him going now that he was talking.
He waved his hand in the air. “I deal withdead people.” That sulky pout was back. “Caring for the living is a little beyond my purview. But I can learn,” he quickly assured me. He must have seen the conflicting emotions on my face, because he reached out his long hand to trail his fingers down some strands of my hair in a familiar way I didn’t expect. “May I?” he asked quietly.
How could I say no to that? I nodded timidly, having difficulty finding words with him touching me like this.
Victor narrowed his eyes at the bed for a moment, his own lips rolling between his teeth, before scooting me down and propping me higher on some pillows that he covered with a towel. A washbasin was placed behind my head. I tried to help him drape my hair backward over the towel he’d placed over my pillows, but he grasped my hands with a light touch and laid them across my stomach. “Rest,” he instructed. Then, taking a clean cloth, he dipped it into the steaming water, wrung it out a little less than before, and then—starting at my scalp—began wiping it down the lengths of my hair. “See? I can figure this out,” he muttered to himself. The hot water felt blissful, and my eyes started to drift shut immediately, but when he started to rub shampoo into my scalp they nearly rolled back in my head. It was all I could do not to groan in pleasure.
His fingers paused when I stiffened, trying to contain my rapidly accelerating heart rate at the feeling of his strong hands in my hair. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, alarmed.
“No,” I wheezed. “It’s nice,” I babbled, trying not to gurgle. I was practically panting again, but not from fear this time.
“I feel like I’m making knots in your hair,” he said absently. I didn’t care. He could turn my head into one giant tangle as long as he kept up the rubbing.
“That’s better,” he said to himself, changing his technique so that his fingers reached farther along my scalp with each stroke.
I focused on my deep breathing, trying not to embarrass myself in front of him. This entire ordeal was mortifying but I never, ever wanted it to stop. What was wrong with me? I’d had my hair washed before! But eventually it did stop as he worked the lather down to the ends of my hair, then pulled the washbasin closer so that my hair could lay in it as he used the wet rag to rinse my scalp, dipping it into the warm water again and again. He could do this for the rest of my life, and I would never grow tired of it. Lifting my hair from the basin, he gently squeezed it to remove some of the water, then set the basin aside and pulled the towel up and around the wet strands, pressing as he went to soak up some of the wetness.
“Now what?” he murmured.
“Hm?” I wasn’t capable of forming coherent sentences right now.
